More Than Just a Spark
by Alligates
Summary: Many years ago, Claudia Stilinski had been known as the most powerful witch alive—a title she would then pass on to her only son. At first, Stiles was thought of by all as simply a human spark, not too uncommon a thing, but he held a deeper secret; he was a warlock, a being of powerful magic. A magic!Stiles fic told in arcs as Beacon Hills is acquainted with its resident warlock.
1. Prologue

**So this is the Teen Wolf story I've had simmering within me for a while now... and I really should learn to upload things earlier! I hope no one thought I'd died or something because I am here, updating fics infrequently and publishing old stories. **

**I own nothing, as usual. Any and all references to BBC Merlin are accidental (but not entirely unwelcome). **

**Anyway, here's the prologue!**

* * *

Stiles had known about the whole 'magic' thing for a long time.

It had not been when they had found out that Deaton was more than just a veterinarian; no, it was long before even that.

Stiles' mother had died when he was nine years old, but not before she had taught him some of her tricks.

For while Claudia Stiles had still been alive, she had been the most powerful witch alive—a title she would then pass on to her only son. Stiles knew about what she could do, and he took it all in stride; he had grown up around it, after all. Claudia started to teach him magic at a very young age, and he showed a lot more promise in the craft than most other warlocks would have at his age. Claudia was happy; it was apparent that her family's legacy would live on in her son.

She reassured his uncertainties with her pride until the moment she died, with him at her side.

Stiles did not do much magic after that. What he did do was accidental; panic attacks or bad nightmares could lead to shaking walls and exploding flower vases, along with the occasional lethal piece of silverware flying through the air, but he tried to steer clear from that side of his life.

He learned to control himself better over the years. His dad did not really know the full extent of it until after the whole Nemeton thing, and by then it was easy to believe.

But when Scott had first been turned into a werewolf, Stiles knew instantly that something was going on. It was not that he was clever enough to do some very successful research—though that certainly did help. No, Stiles knew that something was different about his best friend; he could sense it in the strange way that sounded like a light humming or a displacement in the air. He could sense it in the way he had forgotten he could. If he concentrated hard enough, Scott's eyes would not look just brown to him. He could see things—superimposed ghostly images that did not look quite real, but he knew they were.

When they found out about Deaton's little supernatural side job, Stiles was wary at first. His mother had taught him, before all else, that not all magic-users were to be trusted. He was suspicious for a long time, but Deaton eventually proved himself an important ally.

One day, the druid confronted him about his magic, and offered to help him learn to wield it. Stiles accepted, and they took up lessons in secret. Stiles would help around the clinic when Scott was not around (which was getting to be quite often, what with his new alpha responsibilities), and Deaton would instruct him in druid practices and what little warlock magic he knew.

Deaton advised him not to tell anyone—not even Scott—about his abilities; they had enough to worry about as it was, and having more people know about him would just bring more unwanted attention, putting them all in further danger of whatever lurked around the area of Beacon Hills. Stiles had to protect them, all the while keeping up the image of a normal human.

It was not as hard as one might expect; he was not, after all, invincible. He did get hurt many times, and he still did not have the supernatural healing powers of a werewolf. Stiles' magic manifested itself as more of an extension of him (he could certainly use it as another pair of arms) that he usually kept hidden away in the depths of himself.

Of course, that does not mean that no one ever noticed something was different about him, however subtle, in those small moments when he would let go and let his magic rush forth.

Sometimes, it was more than that. Sometimes, one of his friends would take note of all the strange happenings around him, and they would ask him about it. He knew he could not hide it forever; they would have to know at some point.

But it was getting too easy to just continue weaving his lies.

* * *

**Aaaand there we go! Expect the next chapter tomorrow or later today or something, which shall begin the first of these little arcs: _The Rabid Alpha_! Sound exciting? Maybe not. **

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. The Rabid Alpha 1

**Okay! Here's the first part of The Rabid Alpha. **

**Some things that need be known: Stiles is hiding his magic because it would be dangerous for others to know, as it would attract unwanted attention to them, Beacon Hills, and Stiles himself. There are other warlocks and witches around in the world, and Stiles' mere _existence _draws them to him, and they like to mess things up so here we go.**

**Set during season 2: Boyd and Erica are still with the pack, Derek is the Alpha. **

* * *

It was when Deaton called him the 'spark' that he thought they would all find out about him. It soon became apparent, however, that just about any non-human couldn't even _touch _mountain ash. It helped his cover that warlocks were still considered human, even if they were still beings of magic, and a bit like werewolves in that respect.

Stiles was happy to do something even remotely magical to help, because he was getting tired of acting weak. Any human could have been a spark. He wanted to help, and he wanted to be known as someone who _could_ help.

When Derek asked him to break the barrier of mountain ash, he did so with his real magic. Stiles called on his warlock side to part the line, and it did so with great ease. Of course, it didn't look like much more than a displacement of the air that blew away the powdery substance. It was better that way; safer. If his magic could look effortless and, well, not like magic, then he was doing it right.

But then, there were also the big spells that required copious amounts of energy, and were completely conspicuous when in the midst of werewolves with heightened senses.

* * *

Stiles was mindlessly tapping away on his computer, headphones settled snugly over his ears, when he heard something land on his floor.

Well, he didn't exactly _hear _it (his headphones were of very good quality, and he could scarcely hear anything at all); the Other part of him could feel the vibrations of something big coming in from the open window.

He paused his typing, turning slowly in his chair to see who was in his room. The knowledge that someone would be there didn't make him jump any less, however, as he let out an embarrassingly loud yelp (he was glad his dad wasn't home) when he saw that Derek was _right behind him. _

When Stiles could breathe again, he clumsily pulled off his headphones. "Oh my _god_ Derek, I have a front door."

Whatever he was expecting the werewolf to do, it wasn't to narrow his alpha-red eyes and pull out his claws, growling.

Stiles stared at the claws, completely aware of the damage they could do. He raised his hands in a placating manner. "Whoa, dude, sorry. You can—you can use the window as much as you like. Totally fine. Completely—" He cut off with a squeak as Derek stepped forwards menacingly, snarling louder.

Stiles closed his mouth, staring into his friend's (friend? He thought so, anyway) scarlet eyes. There was not a hint of recognition in them.

"Derek?" he asked softly, not breaking eye contact.

And Derek _roared_, wolfing out completely.

Stiles let out a yelp, scrambling backwards out of his chair, as the werewolf lunged at him, claws sharp and teeth bared. He shut his eyes and flattened himself against the wall, simultaneously preparing for his impending death and summoning his magic.

He didn't end up having to go to such drastic measures after all, for a wolfed-out Scott chose that exact moment to burst through the window, yelling "Stiles!" and slamming into Derek's side before he could reach the boy. He and Derek rolled around on the floor, pushing around the books and clothes strewn about, snarling viciously at one another. As Stiles clambered back into the wall, sinking to the ground, he ignored the great commotion happening all around him and called on his energy, taking a deep breath. He had to stop the fighting before someone got hurt, which he could see was clearly Derek's intention from the ferocity with which he attacked.

Then, with deadly calm he could never replicate under normal circumstances, he raised an arm, open palm facing the middle of his room. Neither werewolf took the slightest notice of him, too busy trying to rip out each other's throats.

Stiles released all the pent up energy at once in a blinding flash of heat, eyes shut against the rush of power.

The twin howls he heard told him that the other two had failed to close their eyes in time.

The two werewolves rolled away from each other, heads jerking from side to side as they tried to see. Derek was faster, and he kicked Scott in the face with an angry howl, before rolling back out the window and disappearing into the night.

Scott groaned, back in human form, hauling himself up to his feet. "What the _hell_ was that? I think it burned me…" he groaned, rubbing his knuckles against closed eyes.

Stiles couldn't answer; his body was trembling, and his breaths came in short, uneven gasps.

Scott tilted his head, squinting at his friend through the bright spot in the middle of his vision. "Stiles? You okay? Did Derek hurt you?"

Stiles clutched at his chest when he could finally breathe again, shakily pulling himself off the ground. "No, he—he… I don't know," he eventually panted out.

Scott looked concerned, stepping forwards and putting a supportive hand on Stiles' arm. "Are you okay?" he asked again, more slowly.

Stiles nodded jerkily. "Yeah—yeah. I think so. Yeah." It was not the hardest magic he'd ever attempted, but it was certainly a lot stronger than what he had been going for. _Why couldn't I control it?_ Stiles wondered. The normally mild spell had nearly drained him, he noted worriedly.

Scott didn't seem totally convinced, but he nodded through his friend's internal musings. "Okay. Do you have any idea what that was?"

Stiles blinked. "What what was?"

"What?"

"What?"

"The light, Stiles! What was the _light?_ Did one of Allison's arrows make its way here or something?" Scott said exasperatedly, running a hand through his hair. "I need to find Derek. There was some witch, or something, and he's completely crazy now. We have to get Deaton—"

"I can help," Stiles said immediately, completely ignoring the first question.

Scott sighed. "No, Stiles. He's really dangerous—he's gone completely feral. You could get hurt, or worse, and…."

Stiles looked at him.

Scott huffed in submission, glaring. "Fine."

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**Thank you for reading!**


	3. The Rabid Alpha 2

**Whoops I did not update yesterday... but here we are!**

**This is the second part of The Rabid Alpha, and a wild Deaton appears. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

As it turns out, Deaton knew a lot more about what had happened than they did. The witch, as Scott had so aptly called her, had been drawn to Beacon Hills because of the amount of supernatural activity in the area. The first thing she had done upon arriving was set up some traps meant to put humans (or werewolves, in this case) under her control. Derek had been unfortunate enough to get caught in one, and was now a wild, angry beast searching for its master. Scott and the rest of the pack quickly located and destroyed any other traps they found, but they needed to rescue their alpha.

"There are many things that can break such an enchantment," Deaton was saying. "Of course, without knowing exactly what she did, we can't know for sure which will break it."

He walked over to a cupboard, pulling out various jars and bottles.

"So," he began, motioning to the first few jars, "there are many herbs that have been known to help in such cases, usually by putting the patient in a trance-like state so that they can find themselves in their own minds, and wake up as themselves."

"That sounds like it could work," Scott said.

"Hm." Deaton frowned. "Of course, if she used a different kind of enchantment, Derek may never escape from the trance."

"So… he'll die," Stiles added helpfully.

The druid nodded. "Painfully and slowly."

Scott groaned. "So then that _wouldn't _work."

"Probably not, no."

"What about these other jars?"

Deaton tapped one containing a dried plant with purple flowers. "Wolfsbane can counteract a spell, if done quickly and properly."

"Wouldn't wolfsbane kill him?" Stiles asked.

"It could, if we used a lot."

"And how much would we need?"

"A lot."

"Then that wouldn't work either," Scott ground out, leaning against the table.

Deaton moved to the other side of the table. "Mountain ash, if placed directly inside his body, would work to expunge the magic."

"That could also kill him," Stiles said again.

"So, all of these would kill him," Scott summed up. "Why are you showing us these if none of them would work?"

"Well, they would all _work_, Scott. He'd just be dead," Stiles explained bluntly.

"Death would kill the enchantment, usually," Deaton added.

Scott sighed heavily. "Is there anything else we could do?"

"Yes, actually. I'm more experienced with herbs and plants, so I don't know how you would go about this, but destroying the enchantment at its source would work."

"Kill the witch," Stiles translated.

"And Derek wouldn't die?" Deaton shook his head. "So that's great," Scott said.

"Scott, you don't know a lot about magic. We don't know what she's capable of—"

"It doesn't matter. Derek is the alpha." He looked at Stiles. "The pack needs him."

Stiles couldn't disagree.

Deaton sighed when it was clear the boys wanted to go through with this. "You'll need to be _very_ careful," he emphasized. "Stiles is right, Scott. You're quite inexperienced with magic. Killing her will not be easy."

Scott nodded. "I'll call the pack," he said. "Stiles, you stay here."

Deaton spoke up as the boy in question spluttered. "I don't think that's the best idea, Scott. The simplest way to get rid of a witch is to trap her with mountain ash, and Stiles is the only one able to wield it."

Stiles blinked in surprise, but he caught on quickly. Witches and warlocks were not actually susceptible to barriers of mountain ash, but he would need an excuse to go along with Scott—he was the only one who really stood a chance against her, after all.

"Yes," Stiles added, hopefully watching his friend. "You need me."

Scott seemed to be locked in a battle with himself. "You saw what she did to Derek, Stiles. He'll be fighting for her—and he could easily hurt you. He almost _did!_ Not to mention the witch herself—it's too dangerous."

Stiles sighed and put a hand on the werewolf's shoulder. "Scott," he said simply, staring into his eyes.

Scott growled, but the fire in his eyes died down in submission. "Just… stay behind everyone else!"

Stiles grinned. "Let's hunt down this witch!"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

"No, I don't."

Stiles was still beaming when they left the clinic and set off to find the others.

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**Thank you for reading!**


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